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“OIL!” I scream, slamming my hand down on the oak conference table. “Millions of gallons of oil!”

Silence around the table. Behind me, a typist types stuff.

“Are you getting all this?” I ask the typist.

“Yes, Mr. Irion,” she responds. She’s an older woman, gray haired and slightly bent, with eyes that seem tired and a bit weary. Looking at the woman depresses me and makes me think of my own death, so I turn away.

“Gentlemen,” I say, rising to my feet. “I have a solution for you. AND I have a maxim. In fact, they’re one in the same.”

The room holds its breath as I begin to speak. I lean forward, placing my hands flat on the table. A nervous suspense fills the air.

“Even the sea floor needs to get its ass kicked every now and then.”

Silence.

Quiet.

The typist can be heard muttering the word “What?” softly to herself. I’m going to check back later to see if she included that “What?” in her report. If not, she’s fired.

“What the hell are you talking about?” another board member asks.

“I think you know damn well what I’m talking about. I’m talking about blowing up the ocean and starting all over.”

“What the hell do you mean ‘starting all over’? What are we going to start over?” The VP asks.

“The ocean. We’ve pretty much fucked the gulf coast to the point that it’s now just a loose, wet sleeve hanging loosely between mother nature’s trembling, ill-shaven legs.”

Several members of the board cringe. A lone, indignant “Come on” can be heard from somewhere in the rear of the room.

I cringe a little too.

“Okay, maybe we don’t like the blowing up the ocean idea. But what about THIS.” I bring out a small graphic I made that morning. It’s a map of the gulf coastal region. Much of the coast as well as the entirety of Mexico has been blacked out.

“What is that supposed to mean?” the Director of Emergency Finance asks.

“Let’s just put a big, Hefty trash bag over all of the Gulf Coast! It’s pretty much trashed anyway! This way we can say that here at BP, we always put our trash where it belongs–in trash bags!”

“Are you serious?” one man asks.

“What are your credentials?” another board member asks.

“Who let you in here?” the VP asks. His head cocks to the side and, peering forward, asks “Are you crying?”

I am now crying.

“Why is he crying?” the typist asks.

Questions swirl about me. A sweat breaks out along my back and shoulders. I’m losing my audience. I reach into my pocket. Two small, spherical objects meet my grasp. I draw my hand high and throw the objects on the ground; they immediately burst, spewing forth plumes of great, black smoke. I bolt to the door, but in all the smoke I get disoriented and run the wrong direction, colliding with the typist and hitting my head on the adjacent wall.

I wake up on the steps of BP headquarters with a pink slip and my copy of the meeting’s transcript.

Wearily, I rub the bump on my head and check my hand for blood. I begin to flip through the pages of the report.